There was a time Iowa had its own flavor.
Not
chains or copy-paste menus. Actual places where the carpet smelled like grease,
the coffee never stopped, and somebody knew your name—or at least your order.
Most
of them are gone now.
Not
because they were bad. Because time moved on, highways shifted, big chains
rolled in, and little by little… they disappeared.
If
you grew up here, you probably remember a few of these.
 |
| Chuck Grassley |
If you’ve followed Iowa politics for any length
of time, you’ve heard of Chuck Grassley.
He’s not just part of the system—he’s part of the
backdrop. Like a courthouse clock that’s always been there, ticking whether or
not you notice it. You go to a town hall, a fair, some random meeting in a
school gym…there’s a decent chance he’s been there or is about to walk in.
But he didn’t start out powerful.
Grassley grew up on a farm in Butler County, where
he milked cows and hauled hay. Did the same chores over and over until they
were just part of the day. You can see that in him now. Same rhythm. Get up
early. Keep moving. Don’t complain. Don’t slow down.
He didn’t come from a political family. No
connections. No uncle who knew a governor. No shortcut.
He worked his way through school, landed at the
University of Northern Iowa, and paid his way however he could. Factory shifts.
Teaching. Farm work. Nothing about how an early life screamed future power
broker.
When he got into politics, it was small stuff.
You won’t believe how much fun kids had
with this stuff—and none of it plugged in or connected to the internet.
Iowa
kids didn’t sit still long in the 1960s. If you weren’t outside, you were in
the basement making your own action.
These
toys got dirty. They got dropped, smashed, and dragged across gravel.
No
rules. No instructions. Just imagination and whatever you had on hand.
These
were the must-haves. The ones every kid either owned—or wished he did.
Before Walmart swallowed up everything in a 30-mile radius, you had the dime store.
Not that you called it that. You just said you were “going to town.”
Mom needed thread. Dad needed something he
couldn’t quite describe. You needed a couple dollars and about an hour to
wander.
Every Iowa kid knew the layout without
thinking. Toys somewhere near the front. School supplies off to the side. Candy
close enough to beg for. And if you were lucky… a lunch counter in the back.
You didn’t run in and out. You drifted.
Picked things up. Put them back. Checked your money again like it might’ve
magically increased.
These weren’t big stores. That’s why they
worked.
 |
| The Des Moines Register. May 2, 1930. |
The Des Moines Register printed this picture showing readers what to expect at the first night time ballgame at the Western League Ball Park. The Des Moines Demons were playing the Wichita ball club in what the paper called a "night baseball experiment."
Pictured at the far right is L.E. Keyser, president. Club members shown (left to right) include: Cy Lingle, catcher; Bud Tinning, pitcher; Jim Oglesby, firstbase; Leo Norris, secondbase; Hughie Nielsen, shortstop; Breezie Windham, thirdbase; Fred berger, leftfield; and Francis Keyes, rightfield.
 |
| The Courier. December 31, 1919 |
The Courier printed this picture of the Waterloo Laundry Company and apartments that was scheduled to open on February 1, 1920. The building at Jefferson Street and Park Avenue was three stories high. The Waterloo Laundry Company was on the bottom floor. The top two floors housed 34 apartments - 10 two room units, and 24 one room units. Each unit included a kitchenette, bath, dressing room, and closet.
The Black Angel rises out of Oakland Cemetery
in Iowa City—ten feet tall, solid bronze, dark as a storm rolling in. Her wings
are raised, her head tipped downward, like she’s watching something you can’t
see. Or waiting for it.
People will tell you all kinds of things about
her. She moves. Cries at midnight. If you kiss under her wings, you’ll be dead
within a year.
It might be nonsense. Maybe not. Either way,
nobody walks up to her like she’s just another statue.
People don’t understand that she didn’t start out
that way.
When the statue went up in 1913, it was bright
bronze. It was commissioned by Teresa Feldevert after the deaths of her son and
husband. She wanted something permanent that would hold their memory in place.
